And as he ran he imagined Liz telling Maria how pathetic he was. Maria would, of course, toss her soft fair hair over her shoulder, and parade her new boyfriend in front of him. Life was cruel.

He'd never meant to carry it. He hadn't even planned to buy it. But it smelled like Maria. Hyperventilating Maria. No matter how rarely he said the name outloud, it felt so good to roll it around in his mind.

Michael shivered, he'd left his jacket back at the high school. He never should have been there anyway. He wasn't going to walk back now. Not because he didn't want to face Liz "Xena" Parker, but because he just didn't want to bother.

"Mickey! Hey, Mickey!" A portly man called at him from a doorway.

God, he hated to be called Mickey. Must be one of Hank's friends.

"Hank's boy! Get over here, come get your father!"

And there was something he hated even worse.

Nevertheless, he stomped over to the portly man standing in the doorway, naturally, of a bar. Also, naturally, a patrol car was parked in front of the bar.

"Mickey, he's too drunk. There was a brawl, but Hank was too far gone to do anything but pass out. I need you to take him home."

Home. It took him a minute to associate the words 'home' and 'Hank.'

"Yeh, sure," he answered gruffly and pushed his way inside. The place was a mess. Yeh, it had probably never been a five star place but...there was glass everywhere. Splinters of wood and broken bar stools littered the floor. Gingerly, he worked his way to the lump that was his sorry foster father. Grunting, he called out, "Hey, can I get some help here."

"Guerin?" Oh, yes, the sheriff. What a completely perfect night.

"Sir, I'm just taking my foster father home. Not able to drive and all. Unless, of course, you need to arrest him?" Michael figured he could dream.

"No, that's okay." Valenti looked around for a uniform, "Owens, help the boy."

Odd. Valenti usually took every chance to pester him and the Evans' children. Instead, Valenti was preoccupied with a sobbing woman. She was small, and he was being unexpectedly gentle with-

Dear lord, it was Amy DeLuca.

And she was wasted. Valenti had one arm around her, the other was awkwardly patting her shoulder in attempt at comfort. "Ms. DeLuca, you shouldn't be here. This is not," Valenti squirmed, "an appropriate establishment for a lady."

Amy was still sobbing. Michael couldn't help but stare and listen. He'd assumed she would be at home with her daughter.

"I can't go home, Jim. I can't." She clung to the Sheriff. "I can't face her. Can't look at her without thinking of him. She has his eyes, his laugh." The woman moaned and called out to the bartender for another beer.

The sheriff shook his head no to the bartender, looked up, and locked eyes with Michael. "Shouldn't you be going?"

Michael lugged Hank into the truck with the help of the deputy. Driving to the trailer park, Michael remembered Liz's cold anger and Maria's revelation in the nookie hotel.

Her father had left.

And though Maria hadn't told him, he recognized the look in her eyes. She blamed herself. As if she hadn't been worth it. Her father didn't want her, so he ran.

Which, Michael realized, didn't make them so different in her eyes.

That's when the ache really began to set in.

***

After realizing his presence might not be the best thing, Max left Isabel and Alex in the booth at the Crashdown.

Isabel realized they had made a connection today, however tenuous. So, rather than leave with Max, as Alex expected, she asked him about his music.

"So, do you still play the guitar?"

He was surprised she knew. "Yeh, I've got pipe dreams." He took a sip of soda. "I really want to start a garage band. Since junior high, really."

"Oh, why haven't you?"

"The garage band, preferably, would have more than one member."

"I play a mean triangle."

Alex laughed, heads turned. The gossip would be hot tomorrow, Isabel Evans was talking to Alex Whitman. Not coldly, or in my-brother-ex-girlfriend's-best friend capacity, but in an almost date-like environment.

"Seriously, I'd like a drummer. And a bassist. I'd be lead guitar, of course?"

"And singing, too?"

He sighed and looked at their waitress, "I was holding out for Maria."

She quirked an eyebrow, "Maria?"

"Voice like an angel. Cliche, but true."

"Maria?"

"You'd never guess, would you. She's taken vocal lessons her whole life and yet has managed to keep this raw, uncontrived color to her voice. She rarely sings, though. She's got a bad case of audience-fear."

"Maria? Fear?"

"Or maybe it's more like she's shy. I knew Maria three years before I even saw her dance."

"Maria? Dance?"

Alex snorted, "Echo much?"

"Sorry, it's a little hard to digest. She's never seemed very graceful."

"Its different when she's dancing or singing. She doesn't really perform. She does it for art's sake. She gets caught up, not like she's lost, but like..."

Isabel nodded,"It sound beautiful." And then she did something daring, she put her hand on top of his.

Alex cheered inwardly, "It is. It's how I feel when I play. When I play, I feel strong-"

Alex choked.

Isabel rushed to him on the other side of the booth and smacked his back, "Geez, Whitman! Are you okay?"

"Better than okay! Lightning hit!"

"What?"

"It's the answer. For Maria. She needs to dance and sing again."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, it's got to be better than rebounding or sniffing her oils or denial. Trust me, its therapeutic. We can't force her into forgetting Michael. I'm not sure I'd want her to. I just know I can't stand that look anymore."

"Okay, so what's the plan?" She leaned in and he squeezed her hand.

***

"And so you see with the research of Dr. Keller in biodmedical ultrasonics...," Liz was on total autopilot. She had worked her shift at the Crashdown and finished her presentation until six the next morning after Michael had ran out on her. She was still in shock. She really thought Michael didn't care about her best friend. All through her walk to the general store for red paint (she, too, had fled) and back, she had wondered what was going on. Was this a Czechoslovakian quirk? Leave the ones you love? No, wait, she was being too gentle. Run over the hearts of the ones you love with a Mack truck and then let lemmings eat the leftover shreds, just to be sure. Liz shuddered, maybe she was being too graphic. But she was bitter, she could, be graphic. It was allowed.

"Liz?"

"What?" Then Liz realized that she had finished speaking a minute ago but was still standing in front of the class. "Oh. Yeh, class." She rushed to her seat beside Max.

"Hey," he whispered, "are you okay?'

"Fine." Monosyllabic was also allowed.

"Okay, hey, Liz...," he hesitated. "You did a really great job."

She softened, he really was trying, "Thanks." Lifting her head, she let a smile loose. Let him handle that, she smirked inwardly.

Shyly, Max smiled back.

***

"Mr. Guerin, I see we're keeping our bargain."

"Yes, sir. You're still going to give me the recommendation, right?"

"Let's hear about the assignment first." Mr. Hinds sat down while Michael paced before him.

"I want to do the extrapolation. Only different. What if I were to draw a parent based on the image of the child and the other parent."

"Clarify."

"Well, say, I drew the mother based on the father and son. Studied the son and father and kind of fill in the blanks," he looked at Mr. Hinds for approval. The teacher thought about it for awhile before pulling a crisp piece of school letterhead out of his desk, "I like it, Michael. I want results within the week though. A sketch, at least."

Michael clutched the recommendation; this was his key to refuge.

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. Hinds called out as Michael ran out the door towards the library, "Keep it up, you might just pass!"

Then he sat back and smiled. Who was he kidding? Guerin was headed for an A. He wondered about the sudden change, he'd never heard the boy utter a pleasantry before. Then he decided whatever it was, he was glad Michael finally had something happen to him.

***

When Michael entered the library he found Ms. Clarke carrying a cardboard moving box into her office.

"Hi, Michael. There's cookies and tabasco in the back. Help yourself. Is that my recommendation?"

"Yes, ma'am." He put the paper down and took the box out of her hands.

"Thank you. I'm just doing a little redecorating. Taking down the diplomas and putting up some art. I like change now and then. Go ahead and open the box, since you'll be spending so much time here you might as well have input."

Michael opened the box on the floor and lifted out the first painting, a reproduction of The Last Supper. Too heavy for the room, he decided before placing it carefully on the floor.

"Wow." The second painting incredible. Old, but not yellowed. Paint, but not oil. And it wasn't framed, it was on a wood panel. The picture itself was amateurish, and the subject absurd -a whimsical giraffe in a cityscape, but the medium was breathtaking.

"My father painted that."

"Really? What did he use?"

"Ah? Mind hungry, are we?" She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. "I see you're in Mr. Hind's art class."

Usually when someone found out, they asked to see him work and acted insulted when he refused.

"Maybe one day you'll feel comfortable enough with me to let me see."

He smiled.

"Anyhow, its tempera. Egg tempera."

"Like from chickens?"

"Yes. It's a very old technique, the Egyptians used it. Boticelli used it. The artist, or the apprentices, makes the paints himself. With pigment, water, and yolk. My father made his own. Its an arduous process, but in my father's opinion, breathtaking. A labor of love. You see, you need to have an ink underpainting, and gesso. And you can't use canvas. Wood panels or it'll crack. My father made his own panels, too. That way, the work was completely his own creation."

Michael could tell this was special. The painting was beautiful, as if it had been shined with silk. "How come I've never seen one before?"

"As I said, its difficult. Oil paints are more convenient. Its only enjoyed its revival in the twentieth century, you can buy the ground pigment in the stores now, but only in limited colors. My father always used his own."

A labor of love.

"Do you think I could learn?"

She looked at him seriously, mulling it over before she answered. "Michael Guerin, I think you do what you wish."

He smirked charmingly and as he considered, the smirk curved into a sincere smile.